


So Quiet Without You

by mormoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Retired!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mormoriarty/pseuds/mormoriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remembering is the hardest part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Quiet Without You

**Author's Note:**

> A rough little piece (that I may or may not add to later) inspired by The Notebook.

“I do,” you say, loud enough for the whole church to hear. And you smile up at me, gorgeous in your tailored suit and champagne-coloured tie.

“And do you, Sherlock Holmes, take John Watson, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Of course I do, I want to say immediately. But I pause. I feel that these next words that I utter shall be more important than any other, and yet I know that they will change nothing. I will love you just as much when we are married as I did before when we were not. Perhaps even more.

“I do,” I whisper, promising eagerly to stay with you forever. I smile at you.

“Let us now exchange rings.”

We say no vows, for to us, it will be an unspoken promise that no one else need know. We will love each other, of course we will. We will be each other’s, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part. 

You slip my wedding band onto my finger and I do the same, a small, tangible token that will show our eternal bond to the rest of the world. I could not be happier, and yet I feel like crying, for I know we cannot stay in this moment forever.

The next moments after we are allowed to kiss and applause explodes around us become a blur, too many faces smiling and people congratulating us and all I can think is: _You’re finally mine. Truly mine._

 

I wake with a gasp and a wet pillow.

Hazy with sleep, I reach across the right side of the bed. I reach for you. But of course, I have forgotten you are no longer there.

The bed is cold.

I sigh and take a sip out of the glass of water I’d left last night on the nightstand. It tastes slightly bitter, but I don’t know why.

I try to go back to sleep, but what’s the use? It won’t happen now. I give up. I wrap a dressing gown around myself to fend off the morning chill and head into the bathroom; sleep’s translucent mask already somewhat cleared from my brain. I run my hands through my hair, grimacing when I see that several strands have come loose from the simple motion. I shake off the greyed pieces from my hand into the bin. I splash water on my face.

It’s four a.m., but I’ll make myself a cuppa. Sleep is a lost cause now. Though I never was one for much sleeping, was I?

Nearly everything in our cottage is in sets of two- cups, plates, towels. Probably why we didn’t really have company over- never enough chairs. I choose a blue mug that sits next to its twin on the shelf, and pull it out of the cupboard. The lonely one still kept inside seems to stare accusingly back at me.

I go through all the motions mechanically and without thought- after all, I’ve probably drank tea all my life. It’s not a thing to overthink. Steep tea leaves in hot water, and mix desired ratio of sugar and milk to equal a cuppa. I wait for the water to boil and go sit in the parlor.

It’s so quiet here out in the country. I’ll never get used it, I once thought, after living for years in the hustle and bustle of the London streets. But it’s quiet like where I grew up, where the only noise of the manor was from ladies chattering during Mummy’s bridge club tea parties or Mycroft telling me to stay away from the gardeners because they didn’t want to be bothered with kid-pirates. The only sounds of the early morning here are of the electric kettle and of the bees. It’s peaceful, but it can get maddening.

It's so quiet without you.

The kettle beeps, and I get up to finish making the cuppa. I put more sugar than usual for some reason. I quite think my taste buds are starting to fail me, though I’ll never admit it to myself.

Like I said, it’s quiet. For some reason, the telly’s broken- been so for a couple months now, but I never bothered to fix it or get rid of it. It just sits on a shelf now, contributing to the quiet in a muted sort of way. Just like me, I guess. There’s no one really around to talk to, nearest neighbours are a five-minute walk away. It’s what we wanted back then, to retire some place quiet so we could settle down with nothing to worry ourselves about.

I sit there for hours, nearly dozing off in my chair until my phone chirps. It’s an alert I pre-set to remind myself- today’s the day I usually visit.

 

I shower and promise myself that I’ll grab a bite before or after; I haven’t been eating much lately and I do know it’s not healthy. Especially now.

Usual black suit and pressed shirt, and I toe on my shoes and pull on my coat. Precursory glance around to make sure I haven’t left the stovetop or anything else turned on, and then I’m out the door.

 

Carol, who sits behind the desk, waves hello.  I simply nod, a grey curl falling over my eyes. I tuck it behind my ear. I have visited often enough so that the staff all recognizes me, and I don’t get any objections when I walk straight to the room. The door is so familiar now, the nameplate under the number 375 stating: _Watson, John H._ I open the door gently, and the nurse inside smiles, finishing up whatever she’s doing and hurrying out of the room. “Have fun,” I think she says.

You maneuver your wheelchair around. I scan your face for any signs of recognition, but they’re faint. This isn’t one of your better days.  But still, though I don’t think you know who I am, you greet me warmly: “Hello there.”

“Hello, John.” I smile.

“Hello,” you say, looking at me confusedly.

“Do you remember me?”

“Should I?” you ask, genuinely unknowing.

My heart drops somewhere into the vicinity of my stomach. Yes, of course. You should. You should, John. Please remember. Please.

“Maybe. We were friends, long ago. Still are.” I discreetly slip my wedding band off and place it in my pocket. You wear an identical one on your right hand, though your fingers are more veined now and slightly swollen. Do you have any memory of who put that wedding band on your finger?

“Lovely. Not many friends visit me.”

I don’t think we have many friends still alive. Of the ones that are, they all must be busy with jobs and children and their own lives, much too busy to visit a pair of old, greying men out in the country. Molly’s visited once or twice though, taking time off from her husband and her teenage daughter. And can you believe Mycroft’s soon going to be a grandfather?

But I don’t tell you any of these things. Or I do, but I change everything around and tell it to you like a story instead. Maybe this time in it I’m not a retired consulting detective but a musician, and you’re not an army-doctor-turned-blogger but my manager. I change it around every visit, but it is always about us and you never have a clue.

 

_“Once, there were two men…”_


End file.
